


The Lord Helps Those...

by Morgenleoht



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Cancer, Catholic Guilt, Child Death, Confessional, Deconstruction, F/M, I'm Going to Hell, I'm Sorry, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, Priest Kink, Roman Catholicism, Survivor Guilt, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 13:02:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12277017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgenleoht/pseuds/Morgenleoht
Summary: A mother makes a confession to a priest.This is an AU written for an assignment, hence the lack of names. But this was inspired by the dynamic between Nate and Sparrow Finlay.





	The Lord Helps Those...

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't forgotten King of Steel, Queen of Shamrocks. Between university and my own mental illness, Skyrim has been the only place my muse will go. I'll return to my other story, I promise.

With the door closed on one side and the latticed window on the other not yet opened, the small cubicle was dark and stuffy. She knelt down on the kneeler, gloved hands clutching the ivory leather handbag tightly, as the sounds of someone settling themselves filtered through the thin wooden divider. A deep breath and cough to clear the throat before the screen on the lattice was slid back, starbursts of warm summer light on mahogany-stained panels. The woman blinked a few times, letting her eyes adjust until she could tell the difference between the familiar profile of the priest and the shadows of the confessional.

            ‘In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, my last confession was one week ago to this very day.’ Her voice was husky from repetitious recitation of the prayers for forgiveness and mercy earlier. ‘Father, forgive me, for I have sinned since then.’

            ‘How have you sinned, my child?’ It was hard to describe the priest’s voice. Deep, certainly, and hoarse from the ragged scar across his voice box, a legacy of the last war. But she could not determine whether it was baritone or bass, a fact which troubled her as she stared up at the ceiling in the still silence of the night.

            ‘I have sinned by thinking immoral thoughts,’ she whispered.

            ‘As have we all. What were these thoughts?’

            ‘I have dreamt of strong, square hands sliding up my thighs, taking my petticoat with it, as scarred lips leave their mark on my neck.’ It was easy to conjure the images, to let them slip raggedly past her painted lips. Easy to torment herself and him in the act of contrition.

            The priest inhaled sharply. ‘Immoral thoughts are a sin,’ he said.

            ‘I know. And it is your job to forgive them, Father.’

            ‘Continue.’

            ‘I have yearned for the touch of one I cannot have. The thoughts haunt me despite all acts of prayer and contrition. Lips against skin, teeth biting into my flesh…’ Her breath quickened slightly as heat twisted low in her belly.

            ‘Fornication in thought or deed outside of marriage is a grave sin,’ the priest said. ‘Have you sinned in any other manner, my child?’

            ‘I took the Lord’s name in vain when a bill arrived. It wasn’t addressed to me, of course, but I was still responsible for it despite a reduced income.’ She recalled the off-white envelope, stiff in her hand but for a crumpled corner where the mailman had stuffed it into the letterbox. Black words on crisp white paper, spilling out another series of numbers that took another bite out of her savings.

            Annoyance chased away her arousal, gave her something to focus on. ‘I forgot evening prayers yesterday because I was visiting the hospital.’

            Standing by a tiny bed in a sterile room, bleach and lemon filling her nostrils and almost chasing away the stench of medicine and dying.

            ‘I questioned the Lord in no uncertain terms last night. Asked Him why a good Catholic girl should have to go through all of this. No answer, but I guess He doesn’t want to answer me anymore.’

            ‘The Lord moves in mysterious ways.’ The platitude was worn with time and use, silky-smooth like the panels of the confessional. ‘Have you committed any other sins?’

            ‘Yes.’ She reigned in her temper, softened her voice. There were other sinners out there waiting to spill their secrets to the man on the other side of the screen. ‘I committed the sin of fantasising about choking the life out of my husband because he decided a dog collar suited him better than dog tags.’

            The priest’s breathing harshened. ‘Is that all?’

            ‘Yes. I am sorry for these and all sins I have committed in the past.’

            ‘Then I assign penance to you: five Hail Marys and the full Rosary by next Sunday.’

            The woman refrained from telling him to fuck off, coarse language that rarely fell from her lips. ‘Thank you for your mercy, Father.’

            ‘It is not mine but that of the Lord’s. Perform the Act of Contrition.’

            The words of her Act of Contrition were as smooth as the worn wood of the kneeler, words inherited from her mother and grandmother, good Irish women that they were. In the moment she meant them as much as they did, sincere in her contrition and wish for forgiveness.

            ‘Then in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, I absolve you of your sins. Go forth and sin no more. Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.’

            ‘For His mercy endures forever.’ She finished up the formula with a sigh.

            On the other side, the priest shut the divider now she was forgiven. It was like that every Sunday.

            She rose to her knees stiffly, floral skirt falling as she patted it into place, and left the confessional. It was time for her daily visit to her mother’s grave and then to the hospital.

***

The hospital was cold and white as the snows of Germany during that last push for Berlin.

            No one questioned a man in clerical garb as he walked through the sterile corridors to the children’s ward. With the amount of sick children in there, many of them Catholic, the presence of a priest was almost to be expected. Parents couldn’t always save their offspring’s lives but at least they could ensure their salvation.

            The boy stirred in the bed, eyelids dry and fragile as mushroom skin peeling back to reveal liquid brown eyes. His mother’s eyes for all the big bones bundled together in his jaundiced sack of flesh came from his father. ‘D-D…’

            ‘Hush.’ A gentle hand was placed on that forehead and the eyelids drooped shut. No hair, not even the faintest down, remained on his body.

            _The Lord helps those who help themselves._ Another platitude delivered over weak tea and stale biscuits by a mother desperate to trust the radiation that killed her son.

            A priest was supposed to be a source of endless strength and inspiration for his parishioners. For the most part, he managed that until he was presented with a pair of brown eyes that accused him behind the confessional screen.

            The collar was tight around his throat today. But still not as tight as the dog tags had once been. Strong, square hands bloodied from killing other men. Scarred lips and hoarse throat from the grenade that exploded not four feet away during that last push to Berlin.

            He sighed and sat down on the hard metal chair beside the boy in the bed. His thighs ached, a penance paid, the pain sharpening his prayers. ‘Almighty and Everlasting God, preserver of souls, who dost correct those whom Thou dost love, and for their betterment dost tenderly chastise those whom Thou dost receive, we call upon Thee, O Lord, to grant Thy healing, that the soul of Thy servant, at the hour of its departure from the body, may by the hands of Thy holy Angels be presented without spot unto Thee. Amen.’

            The boy could not be saved but his salvation could be assured. For that power, that promise, the priest had exchanged dog tags for a clerical collar when it was apparent no miracle from God was forthcoming.

            When the familiar click of heels against the linoleum floor warned him of _her_ coming, the priest rose to his feet. Absence was necessary for their salvation, his prayers and suffering for their good.

            Penance for sliding _her_ petticoat up, taking delight in each other before their marriage, which had been hasty because of the boy in the bed. Even now, the huskiness of _her_ voice after prayer hardened his cock. The priest was certain _she_ knew that and deliberately taunted him.

            He sighed again and left, dodging around the corner before _she_ could confront him. Women were earthier than men, more inclined to the physical. It suited their nature as child-bearers and mothers but also led them to sin more readily.

            Sometimes if he wondered if this was how Adam felt as Abel lay dying, blaming Eve for sin and mortality entering the world.

            He was Father to an entire parish now, not just one dying boy. He wished _she_ could see that.

            But still he slunk away, priest’s collar tight around his neck, to take refuge in his prayers for the souls of himself, his son and the woman who’d been his wife.

***

The faintest ghost of incense clung to the air, a fragrant whisper beneath the lemony-bleach smell, as she sat by her child. His breathing was shallow, a weak hand grasping at life, and the jaundice of his skin almost the same colour as the sunlight outside.

            Her son was dying and her husband prayed.

            ‘I’m sorry.’

            His eyelids flickered open. ‘M-Mother…?’

            ‘I’m here.’ Soft fingers across skin like tissue paper.

            ‘The priest was here. He prayed for me.’

            _Of course he did._ ‘That’s good of him.’

            ‘He looks like Dad.’

            _Because he is._ ‘They’re related. God knows there’s enough of his relatives around.’

            He nodded and she hated the lie. How could she tell her baby boy that his father felt praying for his soul was more important than trying to save his body? It was too late now but maybe if they’d been able to try that experimental radiation therapy-

            She cut off the thought. ‘Do you want to pray with me?’

            ‘Yes.’ She helped him sit up, the bones thin and weak beneath her hands, and she knew he wouldn’t see the autumn.

            ‘What for?’

            ‘I don’t want to go to hell.’ No child should have the shadow of fear in his eyes.

            ‘Then let us pray to Mary Mother of God.’

            The words of the prayer were well-worn by now as she took his hand. ‘O kind and good Mother, whose own soul was pierced by the sword of sorrow, look upon us while, in our sickness, we arraign ourselves beside you on the Calvary where your Jesus hangs…’

            How could she tell that damned priest he should be praying _with_ his son, not _for_ him? He should be praying _with_ them, not _for_ them.

            But the dog collar was too tight around his neck and he blamed her, the one who stayed with their son, for the boy’s sickness instead of that post in the desert after the last war.

            A noise at the door interrupted her bitter reverie and she looked up to see him, tall and big-boned with those strong, square hands, grave in the black shirt and dog collar. Their son’s prayers were mumbled now, the feel of his hand in hers weakening.

            Well-worn were the words of the last rites, delivered with holy oil and much crossing, which fell from his lips. She followed by rote, knowing that her baby boy was fading, going to the Lord in Heaven.

            His last breath was a ghostly thing, his eyes already closed. If not for his unnatural thinness and jaundiced skin, he could have been asleep.

            ‘Rest in peace,’ the priest murmured.

            She wiped the tears which blurred her vision. It was done, her son no longer suffering. It still hurt like a sword through the soul.

            ‘I’ll make the arrangements,’ she said. _As I have since you went to the seminary._

‘Of course. The parish has a charity fund to help with the costs.’ The priest refused to meet her eyes. ‘I assume-’

            ‘I’m arranging him to be buried in my mother’s parish.’ This was a decision she’d made long ago, shortly after her son was diagnosed.

            _‘Why?’_

            ‘Because that’s where I’m moving.’ She raised her chin stubbornly though tears blurred her gaze. ‘Since I can’t rely on the priest of this parish for anything, can I?’

            With that, she walked away to get the nurse. It was done. It was done.


End file.
